Unmistakable Calm
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: This is to be a collection of fluffy, slashy fics of Conn and Murph. Yeah, that's what it is. Story five: Song Fic to Your Body is a Wonderland. Murphy takes Connor on a date.
1. Story 1: Unmistakeable Calm

Nicholas: This was inspired by something A Hotter Kiss said to me. I don't quite remember what it was, but I felt I had to write something about it. So I wrote some pointless fluff. I could be slash, but then it could just as easily not be...Read and Review if you love me.

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue!

Rating: T...language

* * *

Connor was lying on the couch with a remote in his hand. This TV had lived through its prime and it was just a matter of time before it gave up its fight to stay alive. In all honesty, Connor would have much preferred the damn thing stopped working. Then he wouldn't waste a lot of time flipping through channels that had nothing to watch. He sighed quietly.

Murphy was trying to fix the last working showerhead in the loft and that was turning out to be a bit harder than he thought it'd be. There was a clog of some sort or something was broken and he couldn't figure out what any more than anyone else could. Eventually he got frustrated and just tossed the stupid showerhead to the floor. "Piece o' shite," he muttered grumpily.

Looking away from the eye-corroding TV screen, Connor smiled at his twin. "Havin' a bit o' trouble are we?" His voice had a singsong ring to it. "Hate to say 'I told ya so,' but…"

"Shut it, ya lazy ass." Murphy dried his hands on his shirt and crossed the room, heading straight for their tiny fridge to get a beer. "Ya can go back ta playin' with yerself, show's over."

Connor laughed teasingly and changed the channel once more. It was a news report of some sort, but he didn't care about that shit. He switched it again. "Are ya ever gonna just stay with one show and watch it?" Murphy popped open his beer can and took a long drink. After a beat, Connor looked at him sourly and clicked the channel button once more.

"There's nothin' on." After much more channel surfing, he found the SciFi channel and let that stay on for a while. A movie called Kaw was half-way over. "Why, is there somethin' in particular ya want ta watch?"

"Nope, now move over!"

Murphy shoved Connor into a sitting position and sat down where his head used to be. Connor thought about smacking him for it, but Murphy still held a beer and the blond twin would be damned if he became the cause of a spill. So he sat with the remote, just watching as some guy on the television got devoured by ravens. It was gory and disgusting and pretty cool.

Before long, Connor yawned and cracked his neck, back into the tired state that had caused him to lie on the couch in the first place. He purposely fell sideways, dropping his head into Murphy's lap, and rested in that position with his legs dangling over the other arm of the couch.

Murphy barely noticed at first, but when he did he didn't try to push Connor away. Rather, he ran his fingers through his brother's hair and smoothed back the reckless spikes that adorned his twin's head.

"This is some weird shite," Murphy commented on the film in question.

Immediately, Connor changed it and started to flip through the stations once more. After about ten clicks he stopped. "Oi, Law and Order is on."

"Is it Criminal Intent or SVU?"

"Fuck CI, Special Victims Unit is the only thing I'll watch." When Murphy chuckled, Connor felt the fingers in his hair brush against the top of his ear. With a smile he went on. "I like this episode. That rock star guy reminds me of you."

The remote was set on the ground and Connor turned onto his side, still relishing in the nice feeling he got with Murphy's gentle hands playing with his hair. He put a hand on Murphy's knee and let his thumb stroke the joint through a pair of old, worn-out jeans. They sighed in unison. There was only one word for the atmosphere in their one-room apartment…peaceful.


	2. Story 2: One, Two, Three

One. The groceries barely made it to the table.

Rocco often did the Twin's shopping—which consisted mainly of Heineken and occasionally boxed cereal that they could eat straight from the package. Cheap stuff that his mother would often pay for so the twins didn't have to. It took them a while to accept the charity, but Mrs. Della Rocco had been just so insistent that she almost seemed like she wouldn't let them eat if it wasn't out of her pocket.

So Rocco yawned as he took the elevator—that scary, rickety old thing that used to give him a heart attack each time he took it—and checked his wrist as though he had a watch. He'd accidentally worn his in the shower and has yet to replace the damn thing. Fifth floor PING!

It was pretty early and the twins didn't have to work so he didn't actually expect them up until around five this evening. He shoved his free hand into his pocket as he crossed the hall to get the spare key he had. Why they even bothered to lock the door was beyond him.

At first he was a bit confused at what he saw. And of course, al who are reading this probably knows what he saw. There was only one occupied bed in the apartment and the two familiar figures that lay on it were tangled together in a seeming impossible knot. A blanket barely covered their naked forms and Rocco barely made it to the table to set the bag of groceries down before he completely lost his grip. What. the. fuck?

He voiced his thoughts with a high-pitched squeak: "What the fuck!?"

Connor's blond head raised first from its position on Murphy's chest. "Shit," he muttered, his eyes focusing on Rocco after a moment. "….Hey….Roc…"

The door slammed sharply as a very confused package boy left in a rush, getting out of there before the image that he'd seen burned itself into his eyes. Murphy started awake and accidentally bumped heads with his brother. "Ah FUCK!!" He automatically fell back onto his pillow, clutching his sore eye.

"Jesus, Murph! Watch what yer fuckin' doin', ya assclown!" Connor rubbed his temple gently as he unraveled himself from his lover. "Rocco just left. I didn't know he was coming taday."

"Oh yeah, I s'pose I shoulda mentioned that last night."

Connor bowed his head and chuckled quietly. "Ya moron…"

* * *

Two. Mom, you'll never believe what I saw!

"Ya told yer mother? Jesus Christ, man!" Rocco tried to give a retort from his side of the phone conversation, but Murphy was relentless in his onslaught. "D'ya run home ta Ma ev'ry time ya piss yerself er somethin'?"

"Hey, fuck you, MacManus! I'm not the one who sleeps with my brother."

Connor shoved Murphy slightly and took control over the phone. "Ya don' have a brother, Rocco. An' even if ya did, I doubt ya'd do him like that anyway."

"Please don't ever say that again, Connor, for my sake."

"Oh c'mon man, yer actin' like we just fuckin' raped ya er somethin'." A quick swat to the head shut Murphy up. He stared a Connor with a raised eyebrow before hitting his brother back. He deserved it, the bastard. "Th'fuck was that fer?"

"Shut it fer two fuckin' seconds, would ya, brother?" Connor almost laughed at how Murphy pouted and let go of the phone, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "So, anyway, Roc…what's so bad about it that ya go so freaked out? I mean, Jesus, it doesn't affect ye that we…ya know…"

Rocco sighed quietly and Connor could tell this was weighing a bit on his senses. "You could have given me a fucken warning or something…If it's not so bad then why'd you try and hide it."

"Ya know what the priest would say if he found out?"

Murphy perked up a bit at this and snatched the phone away. "'The power o' Christ compels ya!'" He mimicked a member of the clergy, one whom he did not care for. "We'd never hear the end of it. He'd probably call Ma an' God knows what she'd have ta say on the matter. So it's just better that we don' go 'round parading our sexuality and relationship ta the world. Ya understand, Roc?"

"Yeah…whatever. Listen, fellas, I gotta go. I'll talk to you….sooner or later." The line clicked off.

Connor took the phone and set it down on the floor by the couch, looking at the Murphy that sat in his lap with a calculating gaze—concentrating like there was some hard math problem he had to do but couldn't figure out. Murphy raised an eyebrow with a silent question. "I don' get ye sometimes, Murph…one moment yer the world's biggest fuckwitt, then yer Mister Sensible."

"Ah, shut it, ya monkey fuck." Murphy smacked him lightly, playfully on the head. "So what d'we do about Rocco?"

"Just let him figure it out. He'll be back b'fore ya can count ta three. In the meantime, however…" Connor wrapped his arms around his twin and held him as close as possible. "We gotta do somethin' ta pass the time."

* * *

Three. Like a Condom?

So Rocco sat at the table in the fifth floor, loft apartment that the brother's shared. He was looking from one mirrored face to the other and then back. After a beat he simply grabbed the beer he'd been offered and snapped it open to take a long, satisfying drink. Once that was done, he turned back to Murphy and Connor

"Well, Roc? Ya done bein' an idjit?" Trust Murphy ta fuck with the silence they had going.

For a moment, Rocco just glared at him, trying to think of an insult that didn't encompass the totally real and strangely disconcerting fact that the MacManus brothers fuck each other. It was a fruitless venture, so he sighed and leaned on one hand on the table. "Shut up, you hug cock."

Odd stillness crept in between them for the longest of times until Murphy couldn't take it and he burst out laughing at the accusation. His shrieking laughter almost shook the window panes from their weak hold on the walls. "Like a Condom," he stated breathlessly.

Connor just smirked toothily and shook his head at Rocco and his brother's statements together. "Yes he does, in fact," he said steadily, "And he's damn good at it, too."


	3. Story 3:Check Mate

Nick: Spontaneous ficlet to cheer Becki up. I hope she likes it or I just fail at life. Either way, I like it

* * *

Of all the times of day to be doing this why did midnight sounded so opportune... The studio flat had not electric lighting anymore so they used candles and that kind of illumination played tricks on the walls with opaque fingers. Tiny, black figures mingled in a massive throng up to the ceiling. Circles and circles and spirals of shade and dimness danced about them giving Murphy a pounding angry head ache that made his black hair stand up. His eyes ached from staring at the brown and beige of a wooden checker board covered in second-hand chess pieces. Well, half covered now that Connor had stolen the majority of the black figures.

After the third time that Murphy tried to rub the fatigue out of his eyes, Connor stopped pretending not to notice. "Ya look a bit off there, dear," he said with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Murphy looked up and narrowed his eyes at _dear, sweet twin brother_. "I'm a wee bit tired, in case ya haven't been watchin' me fall off me chair."

"It's only the third game, Murph."

"Yeah, 'cause I don' like movin' 'cause ev'ry time I do yer fuckin' knight kills me."

"It was the bishop last time." That snide little grin grew like a sponge in a swimming pool. Connor reached across the table and stroked his twin's cheek gently. "Ya want ta know the truth? I've been cheatin' ever since ya knocked out my first pawn game one."

That crusty stuff that dried around Murphy's _true blue_ eyes cracked slightly as his lids pulled farther apart. "I figured it out after the second check mate." He gripped Connor's hand tightly and tossed it down to the game board. One of the three candles blew out by itself, but neither one took notice.

"And yet ya still played?"

"Aye, I enjoy a challenge." The statement was half cut off by a yawn.

"That says otherwise, hon." The only thing that Murphy could think of to describe his brother as was swish with a hint of _oh so damn beautiful_. He stood and went around the table to Murphy's side and looked at the board from that perspective. "Here, look at this." He moved a knight. "There's your next move, here's mine." The queen slid to the side. "The you, then me…and then you, then check mate." He smiled widely and innocently.

With a sigh, Murphy looked at the board. Another loss that his pride had to suffer without repair. "Why d'ya do that ta me, huh? Damn, Conn, yer too smart fer yer own good."

"Yer whining, Murph. It en't becomin' at all. " The blond took both of his twin's arms and hauled him out of the chair into a tight embrace. "Ta be with ya then."

"But Ma, I wanna stay up like the big kids," Murphy taunted, his eyes already closed from how tired he was.

Another candle went out and the flat was suddenly almost pitch black. Connor could make his way just fine, even with Murphy's dead weight leaning against him. Three steps and Connor quickly tossed his brother face first into the mattress. With a loud _oomph_, Murphy snuggled into the blankets.

"Hey, scooch over, buster," Connor snapped playfully. He pushed Murphy slightly.

"Get yer own bed."

"This _is_ my bed."

Murphy propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at the pillow. Unfortunately, it was true. He whined quietly and rolled over on to his side. "But I'm tired..." he muttered.

"So, make me tired." Connor stripped of his shirt and jeans and then crawled onto the bed. "Ya aren't even dressed fer bed yet."

"Wanna help?"

"O' course." He grabbed Murphy by the belt and moved him so that he was lying on his back. Then the buckle was released and then the pants came off. Murphy barely helped, but Connor understood how tired the poor man was. He peeled his brother's shirt up and off. "There ya go, that's good."

Murphy groaned awkwardly at feeling Connor straddled him and then feeling Connor kiss him. A tongue in his mouth didn't even get him to open his eyes. "I'm too tired," he complained, pulling away.

"I know, that just makes ya easier."

Whose hand was it that slipped up his chest? Was it Connor's or his own? He couldn't see very well and he didn't really want to open his eyes anyway. A flush went over his flesh when he felt something grind against his hips. He heard Connor laugh when a moan shot up through his airway. "Oh fuck," he muttered quietly.

Connor pressed his lips against the other's and gripped a hand in Murphy's hair. His stomach fluctuated at feeling hips buck up into him. There was the reaction he was looking for. Even half-asleep, Murphy had the same basic pattern of arousal. "There you are, sweetheart."

"Less talkin', it's pissin' me off."

"I hear ya."

The last candle went out and the entire flat was cloaked in darkness. No more dance of shadows to accompany them and the absence of audience was all the more welcome to Murphy. He reached out blindly, not needing vision to know that his twin was there, and pulled Connor down to him by the back of his neck.


	4. Story 4: Back Rub

Nicholas: Challenge of Becki, because I does as I is told. Heh, anyway...I'm not good at writing masturbation...Now that I've left you with that thought, enjoy the twins after a hard day at work.

* * *

We'd been doin' odd jobs fer some time now, anywhere we could find work—minimum wage shite, stuff like that. I don't like the idea of it being that half o' the things I've been doin' lately're really hard work an' sometimes seem like the people givin' me the job should get a specialist er somethin'. This lady had me work the terrain on her entire front yard by meself an' that damn job took me three days. What did I get for that? Collectively, a hundred and forty-three dollars, but that was because among other shite I had ta do, I only got six hours in on it the first day (39) and five the next day (32.50). So by the time that seventy-one dollars and fifty cents was split dutifully amongst what I needed it fer (rent, bills, and o' course cigarettes, liquor and food), I needed more. The third day I worked eleven hours with a half hour for lunch somewhere in the middle, and I don't think I've ever worked that hard in me life, to get another 71.50 so that I could go home with somethin' ta show fer meself. A lot o' bullshit, really.

One other thing that irks me is that because we're doin' jobs that really only need one person at times (or so they claim), I don' get ta work with Murphy. At first, I didn't think it would be as bad bein' that it was a chance fer us ta get more done, but then that first job…the guy I was workin' with caught me talkin' to meself. Then later I'd be walkin' alone an' I'd see someone that just _barely_ resembled me brother an' as soon as I got excited, what d'ya know? Not him. Well, fuck me if bein' lonely en't heart-wrenchin'.

We met up at the bus stop as we usually did (not because be planned on takin' the damned thing, but because it was close to Murphy's job and my basic area of employment), and I knew the minute I saw him that his mood had much room to improve. "Y'alright, love?" I asked him quietly, once we'd got ta walkin' home.

"Yeah m'fine," he replied. O' course, I knew he was liyin'.

He fished out a pack o' cigarettes. It was almost empty so it must've been from yesterday or the day before, but he looked like he desperately needed a cigarette. Unfortunately, his was shakin'—probably needing ta smoke—and wouldn't hold the damn thing so he dropped it. Now that scared me: me brother, as far as I know, treasured smoking more than any o' his other daily activities (certainly not the nightly ones, however) and droppin' a cig was outta the question fer him.

"Yer definitely not fine," I said, as he just stared at the ground as if contemplatin' the lesser o' two evils. He had stopped walkin', as I expected him to, but when it came ta reachin' down an' pickin' up his fallen companion, he hesitated. "What is it?"

"Me back hurts."

Ah…so that's it then. Good, I was startin' ta get worried. A back ache was somethin' I knew Murph could handle (as opposed to fights he starts and never finish leadin' ta weird behavior like taday). "What'd ya do to it?" I bent over an' go the cigarette fer him—lit it too an' placed it in his mouth fer him.

"I'm not sure. Coulda been a lot o' things really."

I just let that sit, an' by the sound o' his voice, he preferred it that way. It wasn't just his back, somethin' had pissed him off. Feelin' like he didn't wanna talk about it, I just nodded an' went to put me arm around his shoulders as we started walkin' again.

"Wait, don't…"

"Oh right, sorry." Now that sucks. I didn't like not bein' able ta touch him. "I can't hold ya at all?"

After a moment, he took a long drag an' looked at me. Considering that he was in pain, the way that changed his expression (tweaking the corners of his mouth into a frown) made him look somewhat more…I don't know, what's the word? Pissed. I found it slightly intriguing. "Here," he said at length, reachin' out an' takin' me hand as we made our way down the street.

* * *

Once we finally did get home, me walkin' on two legs still only by the grace o' God, I decided that I didn't like how he let his hair grow out. "M'gonna cut yer hair," I decided. He just rolled his eyes in reply leavin' a bit of ambiguity ta whether he was okay with that. O' course, I didn't really care if he didn't want a haircut 'cause I sure as hell was gonna give him one either way. No matter how stubborn he tried ta be (which I know from experience could be like movin' an elephant), I would resort to tyin' him down.

"Why?" he asked.

"B'cause it needs it."

"Why?"

"S'too long."

"Why?"

"I'swear, Murph, if ya don' get yer arse over here an' stop askin' me why, I'm gonna fong ya 'til ya can't see strait. Never mind yer sore back." I glared at'im but only 'cause he was glarin' right back at me. We did that a lot—have little arguments like that—but they were never serious, an' he never quite looked at me like _that_. I assume it was the fact that he was hurt that just put'im in a sore fuckin' mood, but his eyes sorta bore inta mine makin' me wanna blink. "C'mere," I insisted once more.

When he stood, I was certain that the problem was his back. He straightened up awkwardly, standin' from his bed, an' walked over ta me, pullin' off his shirt since we didn't have a towel er anythin' ta catch the hair. "Don' fuck it up."

I don' know where he got the idea that I'd mess up his scraggly, messy, wild main more than it already was, but I didn't argue. It just gave me a quite laugh as I sat him down. I've cut his hair countless times b'fore (bein' that we can't really afford ta go ta a barber) an' I even cut my own when I can borrow a mirror from someone downstairs. "Shut the fuck up," I snapped with good humor, runnin' me fingers through those dark locks.

Liftin' the scissors, I started ta pull his head back, but as soon as he let out an uncomfortable whine an' shifted his stiff shoulders awkwardly I let him straighten his neck again. The haircut was my idea, so it wasn't really fair ta make it unpleasant fer him. Instead, I did most of the work as far as reachin' went, so I didn't have ta move his head so much—even squatted down behind him ta get at the base of his skull.

* * *

After a semi-warm shower ta get rid of all o' those itchy pieces of hair, an' once I'd swept up the mess of it off the floor, he was back in his boxers on his bed, smokin' his third cigarette since he'd been home. I noticed, as I was takin' off me shirt, that he didn't actually lay back—he just sorta sat there starin' at the wall, back bent, face scrunched up in a snarl. I went over ta his bed an' paused until I realized he wasn't gonna look up at me b'fore I bent down an' kissed his cheek (tho' I kinda missed his cheek an' kissed him on the jaw instead).

Murphy leaned his head against me an' I immediately blew warm air on his neck 'cause I know he likes it when I do that. I reached around him an' gently held his other shoulder so I could nuzzle against him, just ta feel him. "Ya feelin' any better?" I asked him.

"Not really."

"Well that's too bad…" I maneuvered ta where I was sittin' in front o' him on the bed. I pressed me lips against his lightly. "Anythin' I can do?"

"M'not too sure yet."

This time I kissed him a bit more insistently, cuppin' his chin in my hand an' trying ta be very careful as I let my other arm hold'im around the back. I didn't hear a complaint, so I moved closer ta his chest and pressed my lips ta his forehead. The movement pushed him back a bit so that he unfolded his legs from the crossed position, but then I think I pushed him back to far.

"Ow! Ow! Shit!" He pushed me away an' sat up again.

"Well, fuck I'm sorry!" I backed off, but don' think it's because of his pain. This was the last thing I would put up with havin' ta do different because he threw his back out. I was tired, an' turned on by now, an' I just wanted ta have a relaxin' night with me fuckin' brother. "That's it, Murph, lay down on yer stomach."

"What fer?"

"Just do it." I grabbed him an' "helped" him along a bit.

"Okay! Jesus, lay off, Conn." He turned around an' stretched out almost catlike on the mattress, layin' his head on his arms with a stiff stretch of his shoulders. "Happy? Now what?"

I climbed over his legs, careful not ta actu'ly sit on him, an' ran my hands up the soft, uneven, tense terrain that was his back. Pressin' down lightly at first on his shoulders, I leaned inta it. He hissed quietly, the pressure obviously a bit straining, but I kept on. I dug the heels o' my hands along his spine and that hiss unraveled into a delicate moan.

"Hm…where'd ya learn ta do _that_, Connor?"

My thumbs drew down the small of his back gently an' his only reaction was a quiet sigh. "I figure I know yer back well enough ta know what makes ye feel good." I kept massagin' him, workin' against those damned tight muscles o' his neck and shoulders an' I also slipped in the occasional caress, just to feel his skin under mine. He was pretty vocal about it for the most part, and when his pained whinin' turned ta happy groanin' I knew I'd done me job. Still…he seemed ta like it a lot.

I leaned down closer ta him, continuin' ta rub him where there may have still been kinks an' sore spots, an' I lapped lightly at the freshly trimmed hair on the base o' his neck. He didn't react at all, which I found strange. Maybe I was too good at what I did. "Ya still with me there, brother?"

"Ungh," he said. It was so quiet that I barely heard it.

"Murphy?"

This time he didn't reply at all. I poked his face lightly an' looked at his closed eyes. Fuck if he weren't asleep, the bastard. "Murphy!" An' he was deep asleep now because he didn't even flinch, an' man that pissed me off. I guess he deserved a good night's sleep, an' I needed one too, but…oh fine. I got off o' him an' retreated ta me own bed.

When I took off me jeans, I realized that I definitely wasn't goin' ta fall asleep as quickly as his ass did…so I took me shorts off as well and lay down, starin' a meself dismally (I'm sure ya know what o' meself I was starin' at). I didn't want ta get meself off, whenever I did I always felt cheated afterwards. So I got ta thinkin'.

I looked over an' saw Murphy droolin' on his arm an' I couldn't help but smile. I reached down an' wrapped by fingers around what me brother had left me with, and I got ta thinkin'. Tamorrow, I'm the one gettin' the fuckin' back rub.

* * *

Review it! You love it! LOVE ME!!


	5. Story 5: Your Body is a Wonderland

Nicholas: Challenge of becki's, cause that's what I do for a living these days. Love you, wifey! Anyway, This is a song fic to Your Body is a Wonderland by John Mayer. Enjoy!

* * *

_We got the afternoon  
You got this room for two  
One thing I've left to do  
Discover me  
Discovering you._

Connor made a mental note that his brother looks _damn_ good in nothing but water and steam. He'd made this note before, many times actually, it just never ceased to amaze him how—for lack of a better word—_sexy_ Murphy is. Pale skin wrapped tight around a lean, strong frame that glistened erotically beneath the showerhead. Tiny beads of water flowed down his back, over his lusciously firm flank, making rivers on that familiar terrain that Connor ached to once again traverse.

It wasn't often that they showered alone, but in light of recent events, Murphy needed to clean himself. "Recent events" in this case translate as Murphy literally falling ass over teakettle into a mud puddle created by the rainy season of the North East Coast. He was deemed too dirty to have a shower mate—besides, Connor _really_ wanted to watch. Watch the water embrace him, leaking down from his too long hair, reaching with wet fingers along his sides, holding him the way only Connor and water was allowed to. He slid his own hands down his legs, bending to apply coarse soap to his skin. Almost immediately, Connor had to look away for the sake of keeping his clothes clean.

Not that it really helped all that much, he could still hear the water hitting bare skin and tile—but mostly bare skin, of course. Urges, desires…everything muddled into his brain, down his throat; his heart fluttered, sending a generous amount of blood down south. The zipper of his fly seemed to undo itself to make way for his hand to reach into his boxers. He didn't bother to look up when the shower shut off.

A snicker along with the sound of a towel rustling, and then Murphy spoke: "Havin' fun with yerself, there Conn?"

Peeking out from under one eyelid, Connor saw a white cloth wrapped tightly around the other's narrow hips, just low enough to set the imagination on fire. "Shut it," he muttered, touching himself and making it blatantly obvious that he was doing so. "I'm busy." He looked away, but only until the foot of his bed sunk under misplaced weight.

"Want some help with that?" Murphy was crawling on hands and knees, like a lion stalking a mouse, over the mattress and onto his brother. "I've been told I'm pretty _handy_ when it comes ta things like this, aye?" Carefully, he lifted the hem of Connor's shirt and pressed warm, pink lips against a taut abdomen.

"O, aye," the blond replied, "_very_ handy indeed." He looked down at the dark hair, bare shoulders, loose towel and gave a content sigh even as Murphy pulled his hand away from his pants—where his need was growing just a bit more needy. Just thinking about what Murphy was planning to do to him made him even more aroused. "It en't yer hand m'lookin' forward to, tho'."

"Fuckin' whore."

Neither could tell if it was the other one who chuckled next, but Murphy had better things on his mind. His thin digits that always set his brother on fire, hooked into the edge of his jeans and tugged them down along with the gray boxer shorts, releasing Connor in all his glory—and there was _quite a bit_ of glory there, if you know what I mean. Feeling fingers lock into his hair, nudge his head, urge it downward, Murphy smirked and looked up at his twin before acquiescing to the demand and taking every inch that he could into his mouth. With a sigh, Connor leaned his head back and let Murphy work his magic.

_One mile to every inch of  
Your porcelain skin  
One pair of candy lips and  
Your bubblegun tongue_

"We're goin' on a date!" Murphy announced to Connor and the apartment as if he was childishly proud of the decision he'd just made. The mattress springs screeched harshly in protest as he sat up, obviously pissed that though they'd put up with the twins' earlier passionate pounding, thrusting, fucking they still had to deal with one stupid, giddy Irishman's sudden hyper activity.

As the words started to work their way through Connor's contentedly exhausted ears and mind, he reached out to simply lay a hand on his brother's back, tracing the massive tattoo there. "We're wha—why?" Nothing in his voice portrayed protest, except that he wanted to make it perfectly clear that he was too tired to get up at this point.

"We're goin' on a date," Murphy repeated, looking over his shoulder at Connor's half-lidded, blue eyes. "Because…I wanna show ye off. Let others see what they can't touch…and when I see somebody looking hard enough, I'm gonna touch ye just so I can laugh when they get jealous then I'm gonna kiss ye, only because I can, and because I'm a prick like that."

Connor gave a low, chuckled grunt. "Wha's this about yer prick? Ya better not be sharin'."

With a cheeky grin: "Never that, brother. Don' ye know me prick has yer name, and yer name only, written on it?"

The blond started to sit up, only to be stopped half-way by a wonderfully familiar mouth pressing down against his own. "I wondered what ye were doin' with that Sharpie las' night," he mumbled against insistent lips. "Glad it en't what I thought…"

"Thought I was gonna give ye a matching beauty mark like mine? Oi, ye could only wish ta be as beautiful as me. Don' worry though. What ya lack in looks ye make up for in other areas." Murphy's hand pressed a naughty palm into against his lover's boxer-clad groin.

_And if you want love  
We'll make it  
Swimming in a deep sea  
Of blankets  
Take all your big plans  
And break 'em  
This is bound to be a while_

Ridiculous…Connor felt absolutely ridiculous—and even a bit riCOCKulous—walking to a gay night club in old, worn-out jeans and a T-shirt, hand locked tightly with the giddy, bouncing, excited man at his side. He looked up at the bouncer nervously, letting Murphy do the sweet-talking necessary to get them inside. Said bouncer eyed the blond Irishman—obviously interested—looking him up and down. It occurred to Connor that this felt startlingly similar to when Murphy would "undress him with his eyes." They were allowed in with little argument and he waited until they were well past the door before he complained.

"I don't like this," he muttered sharply, "I already know that I'm not gonna enjoy this."

"Wha's wrong?" Murphy inquired, tugging his brother along behind him into the loud, large, crowded club. "No one knows who we are here, we can be lovers without havin' ta hide it. And the bonus is that we're surrounded by good-lookin' men that think yer good-lookin' too. Wha's not ta like?"

"Nothin', when ya put it that way." A dangerous admission, judging by the naughty grin that stretched across Murphy's porcelain face. "I just…it en't…that guy was checkin' me out…I en't used ta that."

"I do it all the time," the other stated casually as they stumbled upon the bar. Of course this was an accident because Irish only ever find bars by accident.

"Ye don' count."

With a pout, the dark-haired man shoved his "partner" onto a barstool, and dragged another right up next to him to sit as close as possible. "I do too count. Jus' 'cause m'the only on o' the guys that checks ye out who can suck ya off an' get away with it, doesn't mean I don' count in the census."

The bartender snickered and Connor felt himself turn a shade of red. "Shut it, ya bastard," he hissed in demand.

_Your body is a wonderland  
Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)  
Your body is a wonderland_

It didn't take long for Murphy to get his loving brother—because that works better than "brothing lover"—tipsy enough to ease him onto the dance floor. One of the reasons for this was that Connor already loved to dance more than any other form of physical exertion. Unfortunately, his favorite moondance wasn't a publicly acceptable thing, so he'd settle for the song as it played over head.

Calling it dancing is a bit of a misconception. Dance usually implies choreographed or planned movement to a set beat, but what most of the men (and also a few pairs of women) were doing in this particular place was closer to foreplay. Murphy and Connor fit right in, of course, grinding hips, wandering hands and finally a long kiss. This process was repeated in rhythm because, really, what better thing to do on a date? The Irishmen were a flurry of passion one moment and then laid back one against the other in the next. It was nice to be able to be what they were in public without fear of persecution. Sure, they knew that if any of these people knew they were brothers, there'd be hell to pay. They didn't care. Murphy was fine letting his only, closest twin wrap thin arms around him and press soft palms against the seam of his jeans' crotch. Everything was just fine.

That is, everything was just fine until Connor started, accidentally pushing Murphy off of him. Turning quickly, the blond made an alarmed noise and shoved the man behind him. "Watch what yer touchin'," he snapped.

"I was," came the man's calm, witty reply.

When the other twin figured out what had happened, his face grew sour. Gently nudging Connor to the side, he got a good look at the bastard who thought he could touch what definitely wasn't his. Every aspect about this guy screamed "raging homo." Eyes narrowing, he stepped forward and grabbed at the guy's wrist quick enough to snatch it. With a quick jerk, he had the fucker twisting awkwardly, crying out in pain.

"Any hand that en't a MacManus' hand (tha's mine, by the way) that touches Connor's ass, gets broken," he hissed venomously, "Make tha' Connor's anythin', got it?" This particular comment caught the attention of a pair of lesbians who stopped making out long enough to actually smile and give him a round of applause.

Trying to be louder than the music and the sound of this poor shmuck's whimpering protests, Connor shouted. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Murph! Knock it off!" He grabbed a hold of his lover's shoulders and yanked him away, tugging him toward the side of the floor.

"Well fuck, do I gotta write 'don't touch' on yer arse, or what?"

"Oh, tha' reminds me. I'm keepin' any an' all sharpies away from ye."

_Something 'bout the way your hair falls in your face  
I love the shape you take when crawling towards the  
pillowcase  
You tell me where to go and  
Though I might not leave to find it  
I'll never let your head hit the bed  
Without my hand behind it_

Murphy's possessiveness was probably the one trait that most attracted Connor to him. He could guarantee that if Connor ever was in trouble or needed him, he'd fight through hell and high water to keep the man safe. He'd also kick a mother fucker's ass for getting too touchy. It was the raven-haired twin's way of teasing the world—"Look what I got! No, you can't touch!"—and Connor absolutely loved it. If anything, it turned him on to see Murphy lay claim to him in front of everybody. The only thing that was sexier was seeing him in nothing but water and steam.

Clothes would work for now, being that they couldn't exactly get naked in the crappy, filthy bathroom of a public place. That was both because of being socially acceptable and then not wanting to get some weird disease from the walls and floor as Connor dropped to his knees and shoved the other against a stall door.

"Somethin' tells me this en't the right place fer something like this," Murphy muttered as his pants were undone.

"Ye can fuck me later, how 'bout that?"

"Definitely not complainin'."

With a snicker, Connor coaxed his lover into an erect state and gave him a few rough, harsh strokes just to excite him. Liking how Murphy's chuckle smoothed out into a low, quiet moan that mixed with the pounding bass of the speakers in the other room, he lapped lovingly at the head before taking that arousal into his mouth—slowly, inch by inch.

"Ya like it like a porn star, don't ya?" Murphy let his fingers tangle into blond spikes as the other moved back and forth around him. Not too harshly, he pushed his hips forward and relished in to vibration of Connor's delighted whimper.

It seemed public really wasn't the place for something like this when Murphy looked up to see the touchy shmuck from before waltz in, probably to take a piss. Fingers tightening possessively on the back of Connor's head, he felt what would have been a pleased groan transform into an ugly, annoyed grunt. The man stopped at the door and stared wide-eyed at the scene in front of him. It was understandable for the first few moments, but then he was just fucking watching.

"Wanna take a fuckin' picture?" Murphy snapped, hips lurching forward slightly in the middle of his sarcasm. "Fuck off!" He felt his brother's chuckle at the back of the other's throat and it felt good.

"Jesus," the guy said, putting his hands on his hips testily, "Can't touch, can't look…fucking greedy bastard."

Much to Murphy's dismay, at this point, Connor drew back and looked over his shoulder at Shmuck. "Damn straight," he stated with a wry smirk. In a flash, he'd returned to swallow his buddy whole.

_You want love?  
We'll make it  
Swimming in a deep sea  
Of blankets  
Take all your big dreams  
And break 'em  
This is bound to be a while_

Nothing but steam, water and soapy, sudsy lather…that was exactly how Connor loved Murphy on nights like these. When once they had been sweaty and disgusting from that hot, muggy club, they were now both watched over by a diligent, peeping Tom of a shower head that wrapped them both in the same blanket of warm, post-sex love. Taking a bar of soap to the other's porcelain back, the blond rubbed him up, down and all around in the guise of helping him become clean. "We should go on dates more of'en," he murmured in his love's ear.

"Really?"

"Aye, makes this whole thing o' ours a bit more risky. I like it."

Murphy scoffed and leaned a slippery, wet back against Connor's bare chest. He was chuckling as he turned his head to the side to look the other in the eyes. "This is rich. 'Careful fuckin' Connor' likes the risk?"

"Hey, ye tell me how I'm careful fuckin'…" Blunt nails dragged across a slick, pale abdomen.

"Yer the one who always takes me nice and slow, never just givin' it ta me hard and fast." Reaching back, he put and hand on Connor's waist to hold him still as he ground back against him, an invitation to prove him wrong. He chuckled when those familiar pale arms wrapped gently around his waist, dropping the soap to the floor. "What I wouldn't give fer a rough fuck every now an' again."

"I value this beautiful arse too much ta abuse it," Connor muttered into sopping wet locks of long, dark hair. To get his point across, he let his right hand slide across a hip to grab his brother's cheek teasingly.

"You'll come around ta my side sooner er later." It was a promise. "Ya always do."

Grinning maniacally with a chortle in his throat, Connor reached around and shut off the faucet. "Shut up and take me to bed, asshole."

"Gladly." The bed in question tonight was not Connor's as it usually would have been, but Murphy's. Both were too lazy to change the sheets right then so it was wonderfully convenient that they had too mattresses to choose from…and one to curl up in, holding tightly to the other to keep away the chill of another Boston night.

_Your body is a wonderland  
Your body is a wonder (I'll use my hands)  
Your body is a wonderland…_


	6. Story 6: Down With the Sickness

Nicholas: DONE!! Now, I'm off to write fanfic about Beat.

* * *

The water was hot, but not too hot. In fact, it was just cool enough to be warm. I ran the washcloth under the faucet on the wall—the one that wasn't a sink but really wanted to be—and wet it as much as I could without it dissolving in my hands. My grip on things—on reality—was getting looser and looser as I listened to the pained, never-ending shivers from the mattress. Within seconds I was at his side; I knelt down next to him, brushed a few strands of hair from his face and kissed his sweat-slicked forehead. I then replaced that kiss with the wet cloth and smoothed it to his skin.

"How ya doin', kid?"

Arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, holding himself as his body thrashed of it's own accord in a fit of illness. Half-lidded eyes stared up at me. "Where's…where's Ma, Conn?"

"Ma…? Right where we left her…back in Ireland."

"Ireland?"

He was starting to scare me with this now. No way in hell would he be asking me something like this. "Aye…We haven't seen'er in years."

"What'd ya do, Connor?" It was near a flawless impersonation of Dearest Mother.

For a moment, it didn't even occur to me what he'd said. I did not want to hold any of his delusional rants against him. All of his thoughts must have been muddled together in some hazy, over-heated must of his sub conscious and waking mind, so it couldn't be his fault. Then, of course, I figured out what he was doing and I couldn't suppress my enraged twitch. It was all I _could_ do not to smack him. "You little fucker," slipped out before I had the forethought to smother it.

"Jus' kiddin'," he ammended with a smirk. And by smirk I mean a sick, tired smile that _tried_ to be a smirk, tried _really _hard.

Almost immediately, he sat up, hand over his mouth, torso contracting in dry retches. I grabbed him, I knew the drill by now, and yanked him out of bed over to the toilet in time for the majority of what he threw up to make it into the bowl. "Ten points," I muttered. I tried to keep my attitude light for his sake. The last thing we needed was more malcontent amongst bad health at the moment. I had my arms wrapped loosely around his waist for balance in case his body suddenly decided to make nice with the tile floor. That smell made me nauseous, but still I suffered through. I always do, I always will.

For a moment, the thrashing and disgusting, icky sounds of vomiting ebbed and he had room to chuckle through what I knew must have been painful. "Do I get bonus points when I stop up-chucking parts of my stomach and small intestine?"

"We'll see what I can arrange when the time comes," I teased half-heartedly. Just seconds later, he was back with his face towards the bowl. His back hitched against my chest and I held a bit tighter to him as revolting green liquid projected from his throat. I could hear a quiet whine mixed with that gurgling splash. One thing I knew from experience by now, he was crying at this point.

Curled up by his side, I kept my embrace tight and my face pressed into the crook between his neck and shoulder. He didn't stop shaking, but sometimes it seemed to lessen. He never cooled down—even though it felt like it after a while once I'd started obtaining that uncomfortable heat. It didn't take him long to stop pushing me away out of some stupid attempt to keep me from catching whatever he had. I doubted it was contagious. I think he just got too tired to deal with my stubborn ass so he allowed it.

"Conn…" quiet, strained, unsteady and pathetic.

"Aye?"

"You're really warm…"

What did that matter, I'm always warm when I touch him. This whole sick thing was wearing on my nerves and sanity. "What?"

"…Too warm." He was shivering again, yet he claimed that he was too warm. God damn if this wasn't confusing. "M'startin' ta feel sick again and…" he gagged deep in his throat "…the heat isn't helpin'."

"Again…?" So what if I was whining, I wasn't happy about this. Any of this. It was just too much to try and deal with at one time because I wanted nothing else than to be close to the love of my life. God damn it, Murph, of all times to get sick. I propped myself up and looked him in the eyes. "I think I know what would make you feel better," I stated.

He groaned, deep in his throat, as evidence enough that he was skeptical. Of course, I chose to ignore him and go on with my evil plan anyway. Said plan consisted of holding his shoulders as I leaned down to kiss his face. He moved just in time to avoid mouth to mouth and then snapped angrily at me. "I said no, damn it! And I meant it so stop doing that."

"Ya said ya wouldn't kiss me because ya didn't want me sick. Ya said absolutely _nothing_ about me kissing ye. So there." I pressed my lips against his throat and nuzzled against the hot, clammy flesh. "I swear this'll make ya feel better, Murph."

"Liar. Ye just like molestin' yer brother. Sick fuck."

Now, I didn't argue or agree at all, but I knew he was right. _He_ knew he was right and that was really all that mattered. It didn't change the fact that I was going to touch him and lick him and hold him just the way I'm not supposed to until he gave in and stopped being sick all over everything. With a smirk directed at his sleepy gaze, I lowered my head to his bare chest and as I rested my cheek there, I pulled the blanket down and off of him. "If when I am done, ye don' feel any better at all, I give you permission to kick me out of bed."

"More like I'll vomit on ya." By the way he suddenly gagged, I could tell that this was not far from the truth. The thought crossed my mind that I had better be right.

I listened to his breathing, as I often tend to do at night when he's asleep next to me, and tried to trace the pattern of up and down, up and down in my head. A streak drew cross my mind's eyes traveling northward and back again, slowly increasing in height as I kissed his taut, sore belly, like a line graph. My tongue drew circles around his belly button and then slid down again adding moisture to sweat making him glisten more in the dim light of our home. My fingers hooked neatly in his shorts, my nose pressed gently against his abdomen, I paused to say: "Only with yer consent." I'm not a fucking rapist.

Even before he answered, I started to inch the fabric down. I was certain of his reply, but just to make sure there was no chance he'd push me away, I sought to arouse him past the point of no return. "Fine," he grumbled, and off went the boxers.

Folding them neatly and placing them by his hip on the bed, I let him snicker at my OCD. The rough, bumpy tone of that laugh smoothed down to a paper-thin moan while my fingers massaged his sensitive inner-thighs. I loved hearing what once were pained, revolting gags turn into loving, contented mewls. All that gurgling and retching and gagging gave way to something much more familiar. "Knew ya'd see things my way."


End file.
